American Insider: Panic Station
by Writer by Moonlight
Summary: Two years have passed since Nicole Stryker moved from the Big Apple to London and survived a deadly encounter with Moriarty. Right as the dust had seemed to settle, new stirrings begin to arise. But none of it can amount to the horrors that await them all under their very noses. (Sequel to American Insider)
1. Chapter 1

**Greetings, ladies and gents! I am proud to announce, by request of a very good friend of mine (her username is _ohmycroft_ and she writes awesome stories, you all should check her out!), the sequel to American Insider! **

**So the last time I wrote a Sherlock fic it was literally last June, so everyone please be patient with me as I get reacquainted with the personalities of the characters through the chapters and please let me know in a PM if one of the characters seems too OOC and I will study them closer! :)**

 **All reviews and comments are welcome, especially constructive criticisms or speculations or musings you had while reading :)**

 **Speaking of musings, the title of this fic is borrowed from Muse's amazing song "Panic Station" from their 2012 album "The 2nd Law." If you're wondering why I chose this particular song (and I do not own the song or the lyrics or anything Muse-related; I am nowhere near that awesome), then feel free to read the lyrics in a quick Google search and it may give you an idea as to this fic's direction, which I hope to be far grander than its predecessor. (And check out more of Muse's music while you're at it; they are probably one of the greatest bands of all time, no joke.)**

 **So, without further ado, please enjoy _American Insider: Panic Station_**

 _ **~ Writer by Moonlight**_

* * *

 _Bang! Bang!_

The gunshots ricocheted off of the walls of the abandoned hospital and danced around my ankles. The flapping coat of the felon was all I could see in the dimmed hallway and I trained my eyes on it like a target. I lept over a stray gurney and hit the ground running without a moment's hesitation.

"Stop!" I hollered at the man, pulling my gun out of its holster. "Drop your weapon!"

The man responded to my warning by firing more shots at me from behind him, making me slip as I ducked out of the way. The heel of my palm dug into something sharp and cold on the ground but I jumped back up and fought to ignore the piercing ache.

I skidded in my tracks and held up my gun and steadied my aim. The felon's coattails were beginning to fade into the darkness, but my intuition told me that he was not too far.

" _Freeze!"_ I hollered, before delivering three powerful gunshots. The felon tripped, caught in the leg by a bullet, but kept limping on with admirable yet idiotic determination. As I began running again to catch up to him, I heard a loud, metallic _whump_ and a resulting, heavy _thud_ on the filthy tile floor.

"About time!" I shouted as I jogged up to meet Sherlock, who had emerged from the room right in front of the felon with a metal pan. "I've been chasing this guy for ages, where've you been?"

Sherlock stood outside the doorframe of the room, his dark, curly locks hanging in his eyes and one side of his trench coat's collar turned down.

"Biding my time," he responded curtly, running a hand through his hair and pushing the locks out of his face. "Besides, you seemed to be handling the situation quite well."

I held back a biting response and turned my attention to the unconscious man on the dirty floor. He was sprawled spread-eagle in an almost comical way with a rising lump on his forehead. His black coat was spread out, revealing a filthy white T-shirt and baggy pants. I bent down and rifled through his pockets, checking for any kind of identification or clues. After the first pocket was empty, I found a crumpled piece of paper in his other pocket.

"Hey, look at this," I said, standing up and showing it to Sherlock. He hovered over me, being a full head taller, and read the words as I saw them on the paper: Epinephrine.

"Curious," Sherlock remarked.

"Does this mean like the medicine?" I asked bewildered.

"Exactly, Nicole," Sherlock said, a slight tinge of surprise in his tone. "It is also known as adrenaline, and is used to treat severe allergic reactions including anaphylaxis in emergency situations. The body also produces it naturally during exercise or in anxiety-ridden environments."

"Yes, Sherlock, I know what adrenaline is," I said in a begrudging tone. "I didn't ask for a biology lesson."

"Actually, that would be pharmaceuticals-"

"Just freaking deduce the guy, please," I interrupted irritably. "The mold in this place is making my eyes itch."

Sherlock moved from behind me and bent over the man on the floor. He gazed at him and leaned forward so close to the man's face that they were nose to nose, before he inhaled deeply. I had the insane urge to make a deeply sarcastic comment, but many sleepless nights of conducting cases with Sherlock Holmes had taught me that it was best to keep quiet while the gears grinded in his head.

Suddenly Sherlock jumped up and hovered over the man while muttering under his breath, and then skipped over to the man's other side and felt his T-shirt. He examined some unknown substance that had rubbed off on his fingers, sniffed that, and then straightened back up and faced me. I braced myself for the full debriefing that would only confuse me more.

"Alright, Nicole, I have a challenge for you."

 _Shit._ "And what would that be, Detective A-hole?"

"Tell me your deductions on this man. Let us see if your skills are superior to your predecessors'."

I shrugged and swaggered up to the man on the floor and cocked my head at his lifeless form, pursing my lips.

"Well, he seems pretty dirty, so I'd say he definitely doesn't have a stable job or a nice home. Perhaps he's homeless and works for someone in a gang perhaps, which explains this odd errand in this abandoned hospital."

I glanced at Sherlock for confirmation, who was holding a straight face and not giving me any indication as to whether I was succeeding or failing horribly.

"Or maybe it's all a cover," I ventured with another shrug. "I mean, he could be some greedy businessman from the British version of Wall Street - whatever it's called - and he dressed up like this to throw us off."

Sherlock nodded, moving next to me so we could both look at the man still spread-eagle on the floor.

"Nice work, Nicole," he said evenly.

"Whoa, did I actually nail that?" I asked, excited.

"Oh, no, you were completely off," he deadpanned. "But I appreciate your enthusiasm, truly."

"Screw you."

"This man," Sherlock continued, ignoring my comment, "has obviously traveled long and far, judging by the multiple different types of dirt on his shirt and the overwhelming body odor, and has not had time to change clothes, meaning that he has been on a tight schedule for many days. Since we found the note containing the drug name in his pocket, he was obviously en route to search for it, perhaps in this abandoned hospital where Dr. Hemmings, the brain surgeon this man was harassing, let slip that a nurse left some here before the building closed down several years earlier - also this was Dr. Hemming's previous place of work - and the man came here, on orders from his superior, to obtain this drug."

"Well, I was close," I murmured.

Sherlock knelt down and rifled through the man's pockets like I had earlier and, coming up with nothing, continued feeling around his person.

"Hey, shouldn't you at least take him on a date first?" I joked, crossing my arms and leaning against the wall.

"I am searching for Epinephrine, I know he found some around here before we cornered him. And if I were to take any man on a date, he would at least dress nicer and don a fragrance of lavender and coconut."

It took me a moment to process his words before I asked with a laugh, "Uh, why so specific, Old Spice?"

Sherlock let out a frustrated groan, as if he were conversing with a child, and explained slowly, "Both lavender and coconut are proven to reduce anxiety and stress levels, and as you know, I was born with a brain that forces me to suffer from both on a daily basis if it is not constantly stimulated."

"Ah, I see," I said as Sherlock ran his fingers inside the man's pants' waistband. "I'll have to get John to buy some lavender and coconut cologne, then."

"Finally," Sherlock proclaimed, to which I was startled but then realized he was talking about the bottle that was in his hand. He held it out for me to see, and sure enough in black type said the word "Epinephrine" on a dark brown bottle with a rubber top that was attached to a dropper.

"Clever girl," I murmured, gazing at the bottle. Sherlock cocked his head at me in bewilderment, to which I just said, "Movie reference," and snatched the bottle from him.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded angrily, much louder than I would have liked.

"You've had some run-ins with drugs, Sherlock. I'm not gonna let you hold onto this stuff, it's way too potent."

Sherlock let out a haughty laugh and threw up his arms.

"Oh, so you believe that I'm just going to _snort_ this stuff on my free time?"

"Yeah, pretty much," I responded curtly. "Now, I'm gonna call up Lestrade and get this guy arrested before he pickpockets any more adrenaline medication."

"Fine, why don't you inquire about Lestrade's smoking habits while you're at it? He's quite the avid smoker, you know," Sherlock spat, roughly stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Oh, just chill," I assured him, fully used to his little temper tantrums. In the old days, I would've "gone all New Yorker on him," but nowadays I knew that pacifying him was the best way or else he'd be up all night like an excited, begrudging chihuahua and I would get two hours of sleep, tops.

"It's all gonna be fine," I continued as I pulled out my phone and pulled up Lestrade's number.

"You should also inquire about Donovan's-"

" _Shut up already!"_ I thundered in a sudden fury that surprised me, startling Sherlock into silence.

 _Well, so much for pacifying him. Hope you enjoy those two hours of sleep, Nicole._

I turned away from Sherlock to calm the angry flames in my throat and tried to time my breathing with the slow dial tone from my cell phone. After three dial tones, Lestrade picked up and I told him the address and that we had a felon unconscious who needed to be brought in for questioning.

"Wait, how'd you find this guy?" Lestrade asked.

"He'd been stalking some surgeon downtown and the surgeon himself came to us and paid us a boatload to help him out. We'll be dining like kings for at least a month."

"You know, I wish you lot would share this information with the New Scotland Yard earlier than when you just catch the bastard," he scolded in a friendly tone.

"Nah, we like to keep all the dough to ourselves," I chirped, and turned to Sherlock and called, "Isn't that right, Mistah 'Olmes?"

"Not talking to you," he called back stubbornly, examining the man's outfit again.

"Alright, well if you guys could come arrest this guy, that'd be great," I said. Lestrade and I bid our goodbyes and I ended the call. Upon shoving my phone back into my pocket, I brushed the heel of my hand on my pants and a flame of pain licked my hand, causing me to gasp. I held up my hand and saw blood dripping down from my palm to my wrist.

Suddenly, the man on the floor let out a low groan. Sherlock straightened up into fight mode, sticking his hand in his coat pocket and whipping out a handgun. He pointed the gun at the man's forehead calmly.

"What is your name?" he demanded rather harshly I thought to a man just coming back into consciousness. "Why did you stalk Dr. Hemmings?"

"What?" the man groaned, raising a hand to his face and rubbing his eyes. He opened them and gazed up at Sherlock with bright green eyes that seemed to permeate through the darkness and glow in a way that sent up red flags in my mind.

" _Why did you stalk Dr. Hemmings?"_ Sherlock hollered at the man, brandishing his gun for emphasis. "You know, the world-renowned brain surgeon who resides in downtown London? Answer me!"

"Sherlock!" I hollered in desperation. "Calm down! Let the man wake up a little."

Wavy brown hair sat moussed with sweat on the felon's forehead as he turned his penetrating eyes on me.

"Ah, I know you," he said in a slow British accent, as if he were on the brink of being blackout drunk. He turned lazily to Sherlock and added, "You, especially. You're all over the news. Big detective guy, huh? Real smart. Your boyfriend killed Moriarty."

"No, he's married to a woman, and yes he did kill Moriarty," Sherlock corrected habitually with his usual apathy.

The felon nodded lazily as if he knew this all along, and turned his bright eyes back to me.

"And you. I know your name... it's on the tip of my tongue... starts with an N or something, right?"

I simply nodded, feeling goosebumps prickle out on my arms. The man gave me a drunk smile and, propping himself up on one elbow, seemingly oblivious to the barrel of Sherlock's handgun inches from his face, wagged a finger at me clumsily.

"I know things about you," he said in a drunk sing-song tone. "Lots of juicy... _bloody_ things."

Sherlock's head jolted up to meet my eyes and I broke out in a nervous sweat and my heart rampaged like a crazed drum.

 _He couldn't mean...?_

"Who are you?" I demanded, even louder than Sherlock had moments earlier. I pulled out my own gun and jabbed it in his direction, feeling myself grow hysteric with combined terror and fury. "Tell me, dammit, or I'll shoot you in your smug little face!"

"Nicole," Sherlock said warily, still pointing his gun at the felon. "Steady."

I turned to throw my fury at him, but the look on his face that said ' _We need his information, be calm'_ cooled me ever so slightly.

"My name isn't important," the man slurred, blinking lazily. "But what is... is that I get this... empeh... enpee..."

"Epinephrine," Sherlock stated.

"Yes!" the man exclaimed, twisting to brandish his finger at Sherlock. "The Epeeneefree! It's important... my boss needs it..." His blinking became slower and he began to lean backward onto the floor.

"Hold up! Who's your boss?" I exclaimed desperately.

But it was too late; the man fell back into unconsciousness on the dirty floor of the abandoned hospital, leaving Sherlock and me staring at his body with a horrible air of dread hanging over us.

* * *

"Thank you," I said as the paramedic wrapped up my hand. She smiled at me briefly before going back to her work. Despite my groans of pain, she had dug out the piece of glass out of the heel of my palm and wrapped up my hand, making me promise to visit the hospital the next day to get stitches.

As she wrapped my hand, I watched the other paramedics lift the felon's unconscious body tied onto a gurney into the back of the ambulance. The felon's head lolled to one side with his mouth hanging open in a way that would've been comical if not given the circumstances that, after tonight, serious shit may just go down once again.

I could not shake the apprehension that the felon knew about my past, about the dreadful deed that I covered up back in my days on the Manhattan police force.

 _That's preposterous, simply illogical!_ the voice in my head exclaimed in the posh British accent it had adopted since my now two years of residence in London. _How could that pillock know anything about what you expertly covered up?_

 _The only way would be that he's working for someone powerful enough to bring up that dust from under the rug you swept it under,_ the little rat in my head offered, nibbling at any self-reassurance I had built for myself. _Moriarty was one of them, surely there's got to be more who've heard of our companionship with Sherlock._

I glanced over at Sherlock, who was currently in a heated debate with Lestrade, probably about something Sherlock said (no surprise there). I couldn't hear their words nor read their lips, but as the paramedic finished up wrapping my hand and gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder before walking to the ambulance preparing to depart, I knew with a frightening certainty that my friendship with Sherlock was just as life-threatening as it was exhilarating.

As if on cue to break off that train of thought, a familiar black Porsche pulled up where the ambulance was pulling out and an older, slightly balding, ginger-haired man in a business suit stepped out of the driver's seat and slammed it behind him vehemently.

I sighed inwardly, bracing myself to face the music.

"What in God's name have you been up to now?!" Mycroft thundered as he strode up to me.

"Well, we found the guy that's been stalking Dr. Hemmings," I said optimistically. "Bugger's in that ambulance that just drove away. I had to shoot him in the leg and Sherlock nailed him in the head with a pan that drove him unconscious, but we got information off of him that I'll share with you later."

Mycroft dragged a hand across his face while letting out a loud, exasperated sigh.

"How many times must you get involved in my brother's shenanigans and risk your life? Look at your hand!" he gestured wildly to my bandaged hand, and continued furiously, "In the past year you've broken an arm, a leg, gotten a concussion, and now your hand is bleeding!"

I glanced down at the slightly reddening gauze and felt irritation creep into my cheeks, reddening them to the same color.

"Look, Mycroft, dear," I said, letting my voice border on anger. Mycroft sensed it and tensed slightly. "I'm not defenseless, and it is my choice to do this. I'm helping people, I'm helping Sherlock pay the bills and having my own place which is good for a relationship, and... I love the adventure, okay? I'll admit it, I may be even a little addicted, but hey... I could be snorting crack."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and put a hand to his forehead before letting a smile creep up on his face and a short laugh escape him.

"Ms. Stryker, you are going to be the end of me," he said, turning his furious gaze into one of fondness. I liked this look on him far better; I smiled back as I felt my anger cool down.

"Oh come on, be a little optimistic," I insisted. "Once this guy gets patched up, we're gonna bring him in for questioning and figure out his motives. Exciting, right?"

"My only concern is your safety," Mycroft said, draping an arm around my shoulders and giving me a quick squeeze. "You weren't hurt anywhere else, were you?"

"No, mom, I'm fine," I said in a playfully exasperated tone.

"Well, that was uncalled for."

"I think it was completely called for. You dialed the number and you called that in, buddy."

"I must say, after all this time, your accent is as strong as ever. How is that?" he asked with a smile as he walked me to his car.

"I practice for an hour in front of the mirror every morning, saying the same words over and over," I ad-libbed, "cwah-fee, dwag, get in the gawddamn cah! Oh my _Gawd,_ it's your brother."

Sherlock strode up to us standing on either side of Mycroft's Porsche and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"Lestrade is a complete dolt and I am contemplating mass murder in my fury. Who is interested in being an accomplice?"

"Oh, me!" I exclaimed, raising my bandaged hand excitedly.

"No, no, that's enough violence for one day, my dear," Mycroft cooed, gesturing for me to get in the car and sending a glare in the younger brother's direction. "Control your emotions, dear brother. Lestrade is just doing his own mundane job."

"Not likely, dear brother," Sherlock replied, getting into the backseat and earning an exaggerated eye-roll from Mycroft, who certainly had been anticipating a two-person car ride. "Besides," Sherlock continued as the three of us closed the doors of the Porsche, "being a high-functioning sociopath has its drawbacks."

"I never would have guessed," Mycroft muttered as he started up the Porsche and pulled away from the abandoned hospital.


	2. You've Arrived at Panic Station

**Hello everyone! I apologize for updating so late - writer's block :) Enjoy the second chapter!**

* * *

The sun had dipped into the horizon, casting a painter's dream of yellows, pinks, oranges, reds, and purples in perfect harmony across the sky. I gazed at the melting pot of colors through the large front bar window overlooking the Thames River. The colors danced on the calm waters like a Van Gogh painting, only disturbed by the passing of the occasional taxi boat.

I took a big gulp from my glass of vodka. The liquor burned my throat pleasantly and I closed my eyes briefly as I felt my muscles relax. I flexed my fingers on my bandaged hand a little, wincing at the pain.

"Damn, that's going to hurt in the morning," I muttered aloud with a sigh.

"Ge' into a bit o' a nasty fight?" a thick British voice asked. I glanced up and saw the bartender gazing at me with his brow creased with mild concern.

"Uh, yeah, some douche at the coffee shop told me my shorts were too short," I responded, inwardly surprised at my easy improvisation. "So I punched him."

"Ouch."

"Yeah," I agreed, nodding and grimacing as if remembering it. "Unfortunately for me, his face was pretty tough and, well..." I raised up the bandaged hand as if to say, 'and you know the rest.'

The bartender grimaced and shook his head, waving his curly, white locks about his face. He had to be around his mid-sixties, judging by his advanced wrinkles and the way he wiped the glasses really slow and methodically, but his eyes were young and full of life. Despite their hue of grey that would normally be perceived as dull, they had sparkled with excitement as soon as I had mentioned my fight. The man leaned on the bar counter, dipping the elbows of his white shirt in some spilled liquor on the counter, and gave me his undivided attention.

The bar was pretty empty, I observed, save for a few drunks here and there and one lady sitting by herself at the end of the bar. So I assumed that this bartender was either truly excited by my complete bullshit tale of adventure or simply had nothing better to do and was glad for the distraction.

"You get into fights often, miss?" he asked, his eyes all aglow like a child's. I laughed at that and he beamed. "I mean, ya do sound real tough and all, with that accent o' yours. Where ya from, anyhow?"

"New York," I said. "Manhattan. Been here for two years believe it or not, and all my friends are as British as you can get. Somehow I haven't picked up the accent."

"Yeah," the man said. "Not o' bit, I'd say. I's thought you was a tourist 'round these parts from that accent. People get intimidated by ya often?"

"Yeah, I'd say that," I said, feeling flattered. "I've got that stereotypical New Yorker attitude to back it up, too... but that normally gets me into more trouble than it gets me out of."

The bartender laughed like I'd just told him the funniest joke in the world. His eyes beamed with warmth and I felt like I could tell this stranger anything, even my deepest, darkest secret. Perhaps even one deep, dark secret in particular that's been buried six feet deep for a long time.

"I ought to lay off, though," I mused, deciding to share a different personal narrative. The bartender's smile slipped off his face and his expression turned serious. "Ya see, I've got a godson now, and my friend's counting on me to be there for him. So... I guess I'm saying that I'd be lying if trying to suppress my inner fighter better hadn't crossed my mind once or twice."

Too bad I'm addicted to it all, I thought. The rush and excitement of Sherlock's cases; the adrenaline of almost dying but living to tell the tale. How does that one Muse song go? "Five, six, seven, minus nine lives, you've arrived at panic station."

That was only one of the many reasons I was stuck in my business. The other main one was, well, Sherlock. He was my friend and I couldn't just say, 'See ya, bud,' and then walk out on him. He'd be left alone to pay the rent and find a new accomplice - and God forbid if he turned to John, who, on top of caring for his two year old son, certainly didn't need to be putting his life on the line. Mary would kill him if he did.

"I'm sure you'll figure i' out, miss," the bartender was saying. He slid me another glass of vodka with a kind smile. I smiled and began to reach for my wallet, but he held up a hand.

"No need," he said. "On tha' house."

"Thank you," I said. The bartender merely smiled warmly before walking to the other end of the bar counter to refill the glass of the lady sitting down there.

I gazed back at the bar counter and let out a sigh. Despite the warmness of the bartender, it hadn't made my situation feel any better. The only reason I was here at this old bar two blocks from 221B was because Sherlock and Mycroft had gotten in a nasty fight.

Sherlock had started going on and on about how 'it was Christmas' because we had a solid lead on our case that we'd been working on for weeks on end ever since Dr. Hemmings had contacted us. The poor man had been on the edge of hysteria ever since he'd been receiving death threats from an anonymous emailer telling him to give him the Epinephrine or else, and I quote, "things would get so messy it would make a brain surgeon queasy."

Of course, Mycroft had cut him off and told him that we couldn't go chasing some crazed henchman of God-knows-who just because the guy said his boss had sent him. We didn't know who this boss was, what he wanted exactly, or if he wanted our heads on a pike.

Well, that sent Sherlock off. He started shouting to the rooftops about how Mycroft couldn't infringe on this case because it was his (ours, I had corrected in my head as I watched on) and not the British government's. Mycroft countered that Sherlock was his brother and therefore his responsibility and also the government's, and he would take over this case because, goddammit, he is the head of the British government and he can do what he sees fit to do.

"You're just afraid that Nicole's going to break a leg again, aren't you, Mycroft?" Sherlock retorted hotly, spitting out his brother's name like it was a disease. "Or get her hand cut, or get another concussion, or get her skin burnt from a coffee shop bomb like last year-"

Mycroft had rushed forward at that point to certainly strangle Sherlock, and he would have if I hadn't intercepted things.

"Hey!" I shouted angrily. "Let's take this down a few notches, alright?"

"Nicole, you cannot seriously be siding with-"

"Y'know what, Mycroft?" I hollered in his face, which was a considerable feat for me considering his whole half foot advantage above me. "I don't give a damn about what you have to say right now! I get that you're worried about this case, what it'll lead to, and my own safety, but for God's sakes, man - I can defend myself!"

"You know, I believed that," Mycroft hissed, and then raised his voice, "until you were almost shot in the head by Moriarty!"

What came over me next makes me feel rotten to the core. Even as I sit here in this old, odorous bar hours later, I still feel the guilt as wet and cold in my throat as I had the moment that my hand had connected with his face in the most powerful slap that fury can deliver.

Mycroft stood there, dumbfounded. Sherlock, for once, was dead silent behind me. He also, for once, had let me take care of the situation... which I had just royally screwed up.

Tears welled in my eyes and anguish stabbed me in the heart. I reached out to Mycroft, who flinched away. His face was reddening from the hand-mark on his left cheek, anger boosting the color across the rest of the surface. He promptly whipped around and began gathering his coat from the chair he had flung it on before furiously arguing with Sherlock.

"Mycroft, wait!" I hollered, hating the way my voice sounded pathetic and broken. But he was already gone; he had swept out of the room and disappeared down the stairs without looking back.

"Wait," I choked. "I'm sorry."

I put a hand to my face and felt hot tears on my skin.

"Nicole," Sherlock said gingerly. It sounded so odd on his tongue; foreign.

"Goddammit!" I screamed.

I grabbed the nearest lamp, which luckily was not lit at the moment, and I threw it across the room. It smashed into the wall above the coach and littered glass onto the leather. The bent lamp shade tumbled off of the couch and rolled across the floor before stopping at my feet.

I strode across the room, grabbing my own coat and snatching my wallet off of the side table.

"Nicole!" Sherlock shouted this time; this tone sounded far more familiar to my ears.

I stopped just long enough to turn and look at him. His face seemed constricted, like he was trying to force something out. It took me a moment to realize he was trying to mask a comforting look, and after a moment he gave up.

"The game is on, Nicole," he said gravely. "And it merely asks for every bit of us."

Exhaustion washed over me, nearly compelling me to fall to my knees. My heart gave out a cry of anguish and the stitches holding together my emotional stability and sanity began to pop apart like an oozing wound.

"Not now, Sherlock," was all I could say without breaking anything else in the room. My fists were balled at my sides and I was literally shaking with emotion.

"Please," I said. "Not now."

As I sat at the bar, remembering all of this, I thought again about leaving it all behind. Like I said, tonight was a major reason on top of everything else.

And I had thought that, after Mary had had little Henry, that everything might settle down. And it did for a while; Sherlock and I had worked cases, he retained his friendship with John, and I maintained my relationship with Mycroft. With a smile I remembered the times John and I, at those rare moments when Sherlock and Mycroft were not in the room to overhear, would vent to each other about the stubborn qualities of the Holmes' brothers. But, in reality, we loved them more dearly than we were irritated by their flaws.

I downed the rest of my vodka and inwardly rejoiced at the intense burn in my throat. I felt a quiet dizziness in my temples that brought relaxation to my tense muscles.

"For you, miss," the bartender said, making me jump. He was silent as a mouse behind the bar counter.

"Hmm?" I asked. Then I saw the glass of vodka ohranj sitting on the table in front of me on a petite napkin. I glanced up at him and smiled bashfully.

"Another one on the house?" I asked. "Really, you don't need to-"

"Oh, it's no' from me, miss," he responded. "It's from tha' lady down thair."

He gestured with his eyes towards the end of the bar counter. I glanced discreetly around him. The woman my eyes had merely passed over earlier now was gazing at me in a sideways manner while sipping her own glass of what looked like scotch with ice. Her dark brunette, nearly-black curled hair stood out starkly against her porcelain white skin, which contrasted yet again with stark red lipstick. She was donning a simple, sparkly black cocktail dress with a V-neckline accompanied with a black little shrug covering her shoulders.

Her bright blue eyes penetrated mine and immediately evaporated what little buzz the vodka had given me. She smiled at me with her scarlet lips and perfectly contoured cheekbones, and something inside me dropped and my grip on my vodka glass tightened. There was something off in that smile; she seemed not only trying to look seductive (and succeeding very well) but also amused by the whole situation, like I was a toddler trying to fit the triangle block in the square hole.

Meanwhile, the bartender had winked at me before walking away quietly into the back room of the bar, no doubt to give us ladies some privacy.

Damn him.

I immediately averted my eyes from the woman and gazed at my vodka glass, completely neglecting the new glass sitting in front of me.

Shit, shit, shit, I thought, feeling my face grow hot.

If there's one thing I hate, it's getting hit on by strangers. Another thing I hate is getting hit on by strangers when I'm in a relationship. And the last thing I needed right now, after all the shit I had just gone through tonight, was to deal with turning someone down and hoping they didn't get violent. I had already hurt one hand and I didn't want to have bandages on the other. Mycroft would want to kill me even more than he did now.

She seems sophisticated enough, my brain rationalized as I stole a quick glance at her. She was still glancing at me, sipping her drink. And women normally aren't the ones to get physically violent from a rejection, so I think you stand a chance.

Perhaps she'll be that exception, the little rat in my head offered with a cruel grin. Then she'll punch your lights out and you'll wake up with a black eye that'll make Mrs. Hudson scream.

"Just leave me alone," I murmured to myself, just above breathing level, hoping the woman at the end of the bar would get the memo telepathically. "I'm emotionally unstable right now and I cannot deal with this."

But, lo and behold, she seemed to decide to act after watching me drown in humiliation: she slid out of her seat with the blithe movements of a dancer and sauntered over to me.

SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!

Her heels clicked on the hardwood of the bar, counting down the seconds to the worst night of my life.

Click, click, click.

She reached me in long strides and was standing at my left side in no time, turning her penetrating gaze at me. She placed a calm but firm hand on my shoulder. It took all my willpower to not look her in the face.

"It seems I've made a mistake," she said. Her voice was smooth and languid. It would have been soothing if it didn't have an edge to it that cut like a knife; it reminded me of the way Sherlock spoke when he wasn't insulting someone. "I thought you had been sipping on vodka this whole time."

"I was," I murmured, my face growing redder by the minute. I inhaled and forced myself to look her in the eyes. The blue in her hypnotic eyes held my mind hostage for a moment; but I regained my vocal faculties when a little anger filtered through that this woman, whom I'd never met, had rendered me speechless.

"I appreciate the offer," I said. Her eyebrows went up in mild amusement. "But, no thank you. I'm-"

"-in a relationship," she finished.

I nodded, feeling a little grateful she'd caught on. Maybe she'd go away and stop trying to hypnotize me.

Instead, her hand began to massage my shoulder in slight, small circles. I fought to urge to be soothed by it.

"I had assumed that much," she said. Despite being dressed like a temptress, she spoke like a prosecutor in court, and I was the unfortunate witness. "But I had gotten the feeling that you had been in a fight recently." She gestured to my bandaged hand.

"Oh, no, this is from something else," I assured her. "I, uh, dropped a vase yesterday and I forgot that it's not smart to pick up the glass by hand."

"I thought you hurt your hand by punching the man who criticized your shorts," she reflected suavely. She reached up and brushed a strand of hair from my face and behind my ear, letting her hand trace from my neck back to my shoulder.

My throat went dry.

"Anyway," I said quickly, getting up from my seat. "I'm fine and so is my relationship. I don't do one night stands, so I'm going to leave so you can prey on someone else."

I made to walk away when her grip tightened on my shoulder.

"Are you sure?" she asked. She looked me in the eyes and I suddenly felt very unsure. "I can give you a night you'll never forget." She smiled, her bright red lipstick shining, but it didn't reach her eyes. Her eyes conveyed a playful brightness, but after many years in the Manhattan police force, I knew a liar when I saw one. There was something cold and cruel behind those blue eyes and it doused off the effects of her seduction like a cold shower.

"Very sure," I retorted, letting my tone turn frigid. She caught it and raised her eyebrows again, even more amused.

"Why don't you buy someone else a drink," I offered, taking her hand and throwing it off my shoulder. Her lips thinned and the playful light in her eyes went out as if a switch had been flipped. The frigid conniving look I had suspected was all too clear now. "Maybe someone who's into cheating," I finished.

I sauntered away from her towards the bar door, but what she said next stopped me dead in my tracks.

"Give Mycroft my best, won't you?" she called in a mocking tone.

I stopped with my hand on the door as a fresh shower of horror rained on me. My heart had stopped and my breathing was shallow.

I shoved my body weight into the door and took off down the street, not stopping until I had body slammed myself into 221B and was leaning on the stairs railing, panting.

"What is going on here?" I heard Mrs. Hudson exclaim in her cute, elderly voice. She ran into the hallway and gawked at me.

"Nicole?" she asked. "What's wrong? What's happened? Are you hurt?"

"No," I panted. "I... where's Sherlock?"

"Upstairs, dear," she replied, incredibly worried. "Tell me, what's wrong?"

"Is he alone?" I asked, ignoring her question.

My heart was still hammering away a million times a minute and I felt ready to either pass out or puke. Or both.

"No, John's with him, but-"

"That's fine," I interrupted. I ran up the stairs, taking two at a time, while Mrs. Hudson hollered questions up to me. I ignored them and burst into the living room, slamming the door behind me.

Sherlock looked up from where his sitting chair, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers pressed together. John sat in the opposite chair, but had jumped up when I burst into the room, his eyes wide and bewildered.

"What is going o-" He took in my harried composure of my windswept hair and clothes, and the horrified expression I must've been wearing, and his skin drained of color, giving him a ghostly pallor in the dim lighting of the room.

In the corner, the smashed lamp was still on the floor with the glass shards on the leather couch.

"We need to talk," I said. "Now."

* * *

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 **~Writer by Moonlight~**


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